Fortune's Son

by Jennifer Scoullar

  Twelve months later, Luke sat in Eli Goldsmith’s office, a poky space off the main building of the Nisopho Bank. Sluggish dust motes floated in the dull light. Even the fierce African sun struggled to shine through Eli’s grimy window. Sweat trickled down Luke’s forehead, and not just from the heat. Luke was here for more money, and going by his friend’s furrowed brow he wouldn’t be keen to hand it over.

  Agonising minutes ticked by as Eli pored over the pile of accounts and ledgers. Luke stood up and paced the floor. The room was stifling. He tried to open the window, but it wouldn’t budge.

  At last Eli looked up. ‘Sit down. You’ve spent a lot of money in the past year, Colonel. These sums make my eyes water.’

  ‘Not spent,’ said Luke, toying with a pencil. ‘Invested. I’ve gone underground. It will soon be the twentieth century and I need a twentieth-century mine. Modern machinery that is far more efficient and spares the men. Tramways to replace bullock teams. Pulverising engines to break down the blue ground, instead of picks and shovels.’ The pencil snapped. ‘Rotary washing machines can process six hundred loads of dig a day, and find diamonds missed by dry sorting. They’ll pay for themselves in no time.’

  ‘I hope so,’ said Eli. ‘Because, at present, your expense-to-profit ratio is a catastrophe.’ He shuffled the papers before him. ‘Look at this.’ He pointed to an item on the page. ‘A fortune for ladders, when your Kaffirs could knock some together for a fraction of the cost.’

  ‘Timber rots. We need iron ladders down the shafts.’

  ‘Three hundred pounds worth?’

  ‘Better that than a man’s life.’

  Eli handed Luke a wages record. ‘And this? Even accounting for the fact that you pay your miners like kings, how is this possible? You said mechanising the mine meant a smaller workforce. According to this, you’re employing and supporting thirty more Africans than you did before.’

  Luke glanced at the document. ‘These people aren’t all miners. Some work for me at Themba.’

  Eli stared in disbelief. ‘You need such a large staff?’

  Luke didn’t feel like explaining the concept of rangers and wildlife sanctuaries to the banker. Didn’t feel like explaining about the school he’d set up for children in the village. He fought vainly with the dingy window one more time, then sank back down in the chair. ‘Steam is dead, Eli. I’m importing internal combustion engines and electric motors from England. I need more money.’

  ‘Colonel, I hate to be blunt, but you don’t have any more money.’

  The words hurled Luke back to the time when poverty forced him and Angus down Henry Abbott’s deadly mine. Yet, here he was, begging for the chance to invest in the same dirty business. Luke tried to swallow but his mouth was dry with doubt. He had to believe there was a difference between him and the Abbotts of this world. He paid his workers well, didn’t he? Was committed to their safety.

  ‘A loan then.’ Luke set his jaw. ‘I must have this money. We’ve hit a deep pipe of diamond-bearing ore. Any day now . . .’

  ‘Listen to yourself. You sound like Herman.’

  ‘Please, Eli.’

  Eli shoved the ledgers aside, sweat beading his brow. ‘All right, Colonel. The bank will extend credit for six more months. After that, well . . .’

  Luke leaned over the desk and shook his hand. ‘Thank you, Eli.’

  ‘In return, I’d like a tour of the mine. Your modernisation process sounds most intriguing.’

  Minutes later, Luke escaped the suffocating office, still struggling to nail down the difference between himself and Abbott, or Smit, or dozens like them. Then it came to him. He was ploughing his profits into protecting Nisopho’s unique wildlife. Trying to stay true to Daniel’s vision. Trying to be a man who, in another lifetime, Belle could have loved.

  CHAPTER 48

  ‘Happy birthday, my darling.’ Elizabeth kissed Anne and gave her a small beribboned box. The little girl’s green eyes widened.

  ‘What beautiful wrapping,’ Belle said to her mother.

  ‘I want Clara to watch me open it.’ Anne dashed from the verandah to where the other children were playing Ring a ring a Rosie with Emily on the lawn.

  Daniel leaned back in his chair, stretched his legs and reached for his tobacco pipe, a recently acquired vice. ‘Where has the time gone, Lizzie? Seems like only yesterday when our own beautiful daughter had her third birthday party.’

  Belle sat down beside her mother. ‘What did you give Anne?’

  ‘A carved wish fairy.’

  ‘Stop filling the girl’s head with unscientific nonsense,’ said Daniel. ‘What will you have her believe in next? Leprechauns?’

  ‘It’s just a bit of fun.’ Elizabeth poured herself a lemonade from the jug on the table. ‘Belle had one when she was little, and it did her no harm.’

  Belle smiled. ‘You rub the fairy three times and make a wish from the heart.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Elizabeth. ‘You couldn’t think of a wish when I first gave it to you, so I made one for you.’

  ‘Do you remember the wish, Mama?’

  Elizabeth reached for her daughter’s hand. ‘I wished for you to be happy.’ A cloud of concern passed over her face. ‘Has my wish come true, darling?’

  How to answer? She was as happy as she could possibly be with Luke dead, and this growing distance between her and Eddie, and the vague feeling there was something more she should do with her life. Belle tried to force a smile, but it wouldn’t come.

  What an ungrateful wretch she was. A loving family. Children. Health, wealth and privilege. Everything most people strived so hard for had been handed to her on a platter. Perhaps that’s why painting meant so much. You couldn’t buy the patience and practice it required, or pay the servants to paint for you. Hard work and talent weren’t for sale. Art was the great equaliser.

  ‘Belle? You seem a world away.’

  ‘Of course I’m happy, Mama.’

  Elizabeth put down her glass. ‘I’m going to Hobart next week. Why not come with me? Leave the children at home. We could do the rounds of the galleries.’

  Belle usually resisted such invitations. These days, she found the hustle and bustle of Hobart jarring. Her spirit belonged to the bush, to the rugged wilderness that dominated the scenery beyond the mansion’s manicured grounds. Riding Whisky along lonely forest trails. Capturing the ever-changing mountains with her paintbrush. Here was the wild landscape of her heart, of her happiest memories. The place where she could still feel Luke.

  But Elizabeth seemed unusually determined. ‘There’s an operetta on at the Royal, Victor Herbert’s new one. And isn’t it about time you visited Grace?’

  It had been two years since Grace moved to Hobart. The two friends had hardly seen each other since, and Belle missed her.

  Elizabeth seemed to sense that, for once, her daughter was open to persuasion. ‘You should stay with me, of course, at Coomalong.’ Her mother knew how much Belle hated Abbott House. The scene of Becky’s rape. The beginning of the end for Luke.

  ‘All right, Mama. I’ll talk to Eddie.’

  Where was he anyway? Belle hadn’t seen him for a while. She scanned the garden. The party games were over. Emily had set up easels on the lawn for the children to paint, but he wasn’t there. It wasn’t like him to miss the fun.

  ‘Have you seen him?’ she asked her parents.

  ‘He and Robbie went to look for something,’ said Daniel.

  A worm of worry squirmed in Belle’s stomach. ‘Where did they go?’

  ‘Down to that studio of yours. Robbie drew a picture of Anne for her birthday and needed help finding it.’

  The worm flipped right over. How could that be? She always left the place locked. ‘I’d better go see.’

  Belle hurried from the verandah and down the garden path. She met Robbie coming back up, clutching his drawing. ‘Where’s your father?’

  ‘He won’t come,’ said Robbie. ‘He’s still looking at your paintings.’r />
  ‘I’ll fetch him,’ said Belle. ‘You go back to the party.’

  She broke into a run. How dare Eddie go through her studio? That was her private place, her sanctuary from the world, the one place at Canterbury Downs where she could truly be herself.

  As she drew near, Belle could see Eddie through the window, hunched over a table. She burst in the door. ‘How did you get in here?’

  He didn’t look up. ‘Did you really think I wouldn’t have a key?’

  It was as she feared – dozens of paintings and drawings strewn over the tabletop. All of Luke: Luke and Bear, Luke at the old shack, Luke riding Sheba. Luke magically brought back to life.

  Belle steadied her breathing. She tried to view the images objectively, through Eddie’s eyes. The first thing she saw was that she’d done a good job. Each detail of Luke’s youthful face was recreated with astonishing accuracy. Not a crime in itself. Edward couldn’t object to her talent as an artist.

  ‘What does it matter?’ she said.

  He held up a drawing in black and white, exquisite in its simplicity. ‘Oh, it matters to me.’

  Belle drew in a quick breath. It was Luke, shirtless by the waterfall, their waterfall. Arm extended as if to take her hand, gazing from the picture. Beckoning for her to join him in the crystal stream. She knew now why Eddie’s eyes brimmed with hurt. Each line, each shadow, each loving sweep of the pencil betrayed her passion for the man. Even now, she longed to step inside the drawing.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Belle, it’s been ten years. Will he always come between us?’

  Eddie’s cry came from the heart. How betrayed he must feel. She opened her mouth to say sorry.

  ‘Burn them.’

  The apology died on her lips.

  ‘Burn them, Belle.’ His voice trembled. ‘And we’ll never speak of this again.’

  She blinked hard. Could she? For the sake of her marriage, her family. Could she destroy these drawings of her lost love?

  Belle moved forward, one halting step at a time. She picked up a charcoal sketch – Luke cradling a pair of Sasha’s puppies in his arms.

  Edward took a matchbox from the mantle and pointed to the fireplace. ‘Do it. For us.’

  Belle stared at the picture awhile, then clutched it to her breast. ‘I can’t, Eddie. I won’t.’

  Anger replaced the pain in his eyes. ‘Then I will.’ He picked up a small sketch – a man gazing out across a forested valley, which was purple with sunset. Although drawn from behind, there was no doubt the man was Luke. The narrow hips and broad shoulders. The supple stance. The way his hair grew in a peak at the nape of his neck.

  Edward set fire to the corner of the paper.

  A cry erupted from Belle’s throat. She launched herself at him, snatching at the sketch, scarlet with desperation and rage. The flame blew out, and the singed piece of paper fluttered to the floor. Belle dived for it, but Edward was quicker. He seized the sketch and tore it in two. Then he grabbed Belle, roughly pinning her arms to her side, propelling her towards the door. With a shove, he pushed her from the studio.

  Belle landed hard on her knees. Behind her, the sound of a key turning in the lock.

  She climbed to her feet, screaming and pounding on the door. Through the window, a terrible sight greeted her. Edward, ripping up her paintings and drawings. Sacrificing them to a hungry flame that lurked in the hearth. It was like losing Luke all over again.

  She picked up a rock from the edge of the path and smashed the window, reaching through to fumble with the lock. The jagged glass sliced her arm, but she didn’t feel it. Blood stained the pale green satin of her dress. By the time she managed to open the door, it was too late. What was left of Luke lay in the grate, a pile of dying embers. Silent tears slid down her face.

  Edward stepped towards her. ‘Your arm. Let me see.’

  Belle pulled back. She couldn’t bear to look at him. ‘I’ll never forgive you, Eddie. Never.’

  ‘Yes, you will. Just as I’ll forgive you.’ He kicked at the cinders, stirring up a twist of smoke. ‘I blame this place.’ He gestured wildly around him. ‘This house, these hills, the very air we breathe. Luke haunts the whole damn lot.’

  ‘Oh my God.’ Her mother’s shocked voice sounded from the doorway. ‘Belle, whatever’s happened?’

  ‘She tripped into the window,’ said Edward.

  Elizabeth grabbed a clean smock from a hook and tied up the wound, which was still bleeding. ‘She’s shivering. Let’s get her to the house.’

  Edward offered his arm, but Belle shrugged him away. She tried to avoid her mother’s searching eyes, but as usual Elizabeth missed nothing. Not the shrug, nor the knot of tension in the room. Not the rock on the floor in a bed of broken glass. She stepped in to help her daughter up the garden path. Edward trailed behind them.

  Belle grimaced. The pain was setting in.

  Belle sat in her bedroom opposite her mother, confessing everything. No point holding back. She had neither the strength nor the will to withstand Elizabeth’s interrogation.

  ‘Whatever were you thinking, Belle? I can understand one drawing, as a keepsake, perhaps, or to test your talent. Maybe even two. But . . . how many were there?’

  ‘Dozens.’

  ‘So that’s what you’ve been doing all this time, locked away in that studio of yours.’

  ‘And now Eddie’s burnt them, every one.’

  ‘Can you blame him.’

  ‘Yes, I can.’ Belle’s eyes blazed. ‘He had no right. Those pictures were for me, Mama, just for me. I didn’t show people, not even Emily. They couldn’t hurt anyone.’

  ‘Don’t fool yourself, Belle. They could hurt Edward, and they did.’

  She couldn’t deny it.

  ‘Things will be difficult between you two for a while. Be patient with your husband, darling.’

  ‘What’s the point? We’re almost like strangers. Eddie works all the time.’

  ‘And you paint all the time.’

  ‘What else should I do?’

  ‘Other than paint portraits of dead lovers, you mean? Perhaps take an interest in your husband’s business.’

  ‘Which one of the family businesses should I show an interest in, Mama? Squeezing out small-holders and clearing virgin bush to run sheep? Cutting down the forests I love for timber? Or paying men a pittance to risk their lives down the mine? Emily says it’s wrong. She says the mine workers should form a union to fight for better conditions. I never used to think about where our money came from, but now I do.’

  ‘Emily should mind her own business. It’s not as simple as that. Wool-growing, the timber mill, the mine – they all mean jobs for Hills End. The Abbotts have always done these things, Belle. Nothing’s changed.’

  ‘I’ve changed, Mama, and so has Eddie.’

  Elizabeth made a face. She nodded towards the door and silently mouthed ‘He’s coming.’

  ‘I don’t care if he hears.’ Belle’s voice rose a notch. ‘Sometimes I think Eddie’s turning into his father, only worried about making a profit. Teaching Robbie to be the same way.’ Belle turned to her husband with a defiant glare as he appeared in the doorway. ‘I hate how you earn a living. I hate being here in this gloomy house. Sometimes I think I even hate you.’

  Edward sat down in the corner chair. His furious expression had been replaced with one of stony indifference. ‘It’s good to get some honesty for once, to hear how my wife truly feels.’

  ‘Belle’s overwrought,’ said Elizabeth. ‘She didn’t mean it.’

  ‘On the contrary, I believe she meant every word.’ The new hardness in Edward’s eyes gave Belle a chill. ‘Did she tell you about the pictures? Yes? They were finely executed, by the way. Strange, to be cuckolded by a ghost.’

  ‘That’s nonsense, Edward. Those paintings were mere flights of fancy. You know how imaginative Belle can be.’

  Edward remained unmoved. Elizabeth tried once more to smooth things over. ‘Your wife feels cooped up here. She needs
a break for her health, and for both your sakes. I’ll take her with me to Hobart, if that suits you, of course. I feel sure a week or two apart will change both of your perspectives.’

  Edward’s cold gaze fell on Belle. ‘Do you want to go to Hobart, darling?’

  She nodded, sensing a trap.

  ‘What an excellent idea. However, I have a better one. Let’s not talk of one or two weeks. Let’s make the stay a permanent one.’

  Belle blanched. ‘Whatever do you mean?’

  ‘I mean I’m moving the family to Abbott House in Hobart. We pack immediately.’

  ‘But why?’ said Belle. ‘In Hills End you are close to your work.’

  ‘A fact that you seem to despise.’ For a moment his mask slipped, and Belle caught a glimpse of real pain. ‘I’ll appoint local managers. Our companies are growing too large for me to continue in my current role. It will be more efficient to administer them centrally.’

  ‘What about the children? They’re so happy here.’ Belle struggled to keep the cry from her voice. ‘They’ll miss their grandparents terribly, and Robbie loves painting with me in the studio. It’s the way I connect with him.’

  ‘He’s too old now for home tutors and playing around with paints. It’s time he had a first-class education, one befitting an Abbott.’

  ‘But Robbie’s not like other boys,’ said Belle. ‘He learns best by doing. Look at how his arithmetic has improved since going to the wool sales. The best education for him is being out and about with you.’

  ‘That won’t be possible in Hobart, I’m afraid, not when I’m working from my office. I’m thinking of Scotch College.’

  ‘But that is in Melbourne.’ Elizabeth couldn’t help herself. ‘Robbie won’t cope with boarding school.’

  ‘Why not? I did,’ said Edward. ‘And, if you don’t mind, this is between me and my wife.’ He gestured towards the door.

  For a moment it looked like Elizabeth was going to argue. ‘Very well. I’ll speak to you later, Belle. Don’t say anything you’ll regret.’ She turned to Edward as she left. ‘That advice applies to you too.’